A Day to Forget
by JuniorMintJulep
Summary: It's been a year since the Narada and Nero and the destruction of Vulcan, and the anniversary is particularly difficult for Spock. Seemed appropriate for a day like this. T for mild swearing because I love McCoy, but he's a potty mouth.


A Day to Forget

It had been a year already. One year, today.

He was surprised, not at the clarity of his memories—much to his father's relief, he had inherited the legendary Vulcan eidetic memory—but rather at the intrusiveness and intensity of the emotions that accompanied them.

Every achingly clear detail of that day, from the initial realization to the single-mindedness in the sanctuary to the devastation in his soul when his mother did not reappear beside him, a devastation that was soon echoed on the planet below—every detail was today, in this time and place, as real in his mind as if it were occurring again, and this very human reaction was both perplexing and distasteful.

At the request of the Vulcan High Council, there were to be no official ceremonies or commemorations to mark this fateful day in his people's history. It was time to move on, to focus on the development of their new world and the rebuilding of their race. It was not logical, they insisted ever so reasonably, to dwell upon the past or grieve for those who had been lost. Grief, after all, was directed oneself rather than the dead, and was therefore indicative of a specious and selfish nature.

McCoy had reacted in predictable fashion when the directive from Command came through.

"Can you believe that? Who the hell are they to dictate how people choose to deal with this?" he had demanded. "Do they expect everyone to just forget about it, to pretend it never happened?"

Jim looked past them both and sipped his coffee.

"We have our own dead to grieve, Bones. Let them have their way."

Apparently the doctor, in a rare moment of sensitivity, had heard what Jim left unsaid, and did not pursue the issue further.

And so the day had arrived with no more acknowledgement than a moment of silence on the bridge, and had proceeded in an uneventful, if subdued manner.

But here he was, hunched over his console and fighting the completely irrational sensation that it was the last solid thing around him and if he were to let go, he might just float away. He'd hoped for a message from his father today, but was too proud to initiate the contact himself. He was ashamed of these things, and of the wrenching pain that made it difficult to breathe, and, much to his annoyance, he was ashamed of feeling ashamed. He wondered if this would ever ease, or if eight or ten years from now when he reflected on the events of that day he would still feel as though his heart had been ripped from him and stomped upon.

As his shift drew to an end he could think only of returning to his quarters and losing himself in incense and meditation, if even that old familiar peace would come. The stoicism and calm that was expected of him weighed upon him and he was keenly aware of the scrutiny from his crewmates today, the eyes that flicked away when he turned to meet them.

His replacement arrived, forty-two seconds late, he noted with disapproval. He made his way to the lift, where Kirk and McCoy were also waiting. The doctor had been on the bridge more often than usual today, hovering around Kirk but also watching and listening, for what, Spock was unsure. Now he stood, arms crossed, familiar scowl in place, and gave Spock a calculating glance. The Vulcan ignored him and stepped past him to enter the lift as the door slid open.

It was Jim who spoke first, though.

"Deck three. Join us for dinner, Spock?" He was staring at the floor, but Spock couldn't see anything of interest there. He thought the captain's words sounded hollow, as if he'd been drained of something vital. McCoy frowned at Kirk, but Spock detected no malice in it.

"No. Thank you," he added, determined to remain courteous even in the face of a crushing headache he felt building behind his eyes and the images lurking just beyond.

Kirk nodded without looking up, and Spock felt an unexpected pang of remorse. He had learned to consider this man as his friend, perhaps his first, undeniably his closest, and who was now surely seeking solace, as humans often tended to do, in the company of others.

"Perhaps a game of chess later?" he offered, telling himself that the meditation and solitude would surely provide temporary respite, at least long enough for the captain's certain and swift defeat.

Jim gave a short bark of laughter in response. "No, Spock, I've got a full bottle of Saurian brandy waiting for me and I fully intend to get absolutely shit-faced drunk tonight." He finally looked up, and there was a fierceness that the Vulcan could not interpret. An awkward silence fell as the lift slowed, and now the doctor was staring at the floor, and his posture had taken on a tone that made Spock feel uneasy for reasons he could not identify.

"Very well." The lift came to a halt. "Good evening, then."

McCoy reached out but stopped short of touching him. He did not recoil.

"Spock. You shouldn't be alone."

He pondered the meaning of the doctor's words, trying to distract himself with the possible nuances, and had to look through the compassion he saw in McCoy's eyes that threatened to lay open something he could not bear to face here. He decided to misinterpret the implicit offer, for all of their sakes'.

"Perhaps," he said coolly. "But I am." He turned and made his way to his quarters with a curious mixture of relief and dread, a tiny part of him almost hoping one of them would come running after him, but he was not a child to be coddled, and when he reached his door he feared for a moment he would not have the strength, but of course it opened for him anyway and he stepped in to confront that which he had kept at bay for far too long.


End file.
